


Summer of Smut 3: Doomfist and Ghost

by JoAsakura



Series: Summer of Smut 2019 [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: I took a bunch of smutty prompts. These are those stories.Prompt was filthy alley, aphrodisiacs, hair pulling.





	Summer of Smut 3: Doomfist and Ghost

Ghost was never so reminded that he wasn’t really human as when the nearly occult utility fog of nanocytes that made up his mass started to malfunction.

It wasn’t a virus, not in the technological sense, not in the biological sense at least. But there was something skittering in the electromagnetic web that holds his component bits together. 

It hit him in what should have been a routine op. Get in, sniff around some Vishkar servers, get out, with Jesse an Dva on his overwatch. But there was something in the data, and now there was a tree of warning lights in the corner of his vision, and his body _ached_.

Ached with the need to _fight_ , to _fuck_ , to _flee_ , and Ghost had ditched the op before he could hurt anyone, running in a blind panic to anywhere that wasn’t Vishkar.

He came back to himself miles away from the skyscraper and the glittering lights of midtown, shivering in the rain in a narrow alley between a liquor store and a Chinese restaurant. Ghost folded his mask back and scrubbed his gloved hands across his face. He banged the back of his head against the dumpster, watching neon dragon flickering overhead, sending rainbows through the oily water on the pavement. His all-too-human cock ached and he ran one hand between his legs with a sour laugh.

(Horny against a goddamn dumpster,) he felt his flesh flutter, liquid with need. (That is so disgustingly on the nose, I can’t handle it.)

“There you are,” the voice was rich and deep and belonged to the _Very Last Person_ Ghost wanted to see at the moment.

“Akande,” Ghost didn’t bother to get up. The big man was dressed impeccably in a white suit, the fine wool glowing in the gloom. The rain pattered loudly on the great black umbrella he held. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You called me forty-seven times,” Doomfist’s augments flickered in the dark. “You look like a little red-eyed drowned rat, Ghost. I recall your fathers in similar circumstances.” 

“I didn’t call you,” Ghost pressed his thighs together and tried to will himself into a sexless machine. It didn’t work, watching Akande’s muscles move under the twill as he closed the gap between them. “I _don’t_ call _you_.”

Akande tapped his wrist, and a holographic call log flickered in the air. “An emergency protocol, perhaps, my horrible beauty?”

“You probably want to stay away from me if I’m infectious to your cybers,” Ghost squirmed. He wanted nothing more than to fuck the man in front of him, and he hated how badly he needed it. “I have some sort of… ah. Problem.”

“I would have thought with your little run in with Sombra a few years ago, your security policies would be better,” Akande crouched beside him, shielding Ghost from the rain. There was a gleam in the back of his eyes. “Oh, that’s a nasty bit of work. A fuzzy logic worm designed to confound AIs. But an interesting effect on truly human soul.” He ran a gloved hand through Ghost’s white curls and tugged him closer. “You can’t infect me with this, don’t worry.”

Ghost didn’t fight him, instead, the dirty white leather of his uniform rippled back, folding into his mass and leaving him bare. Akande stood, hand fisted in Ghost’s hair and hauled him upright by it into a kiss.

The warning lights blared red behind his eyes and Ghost whined softly as they kissed, ferocious. Ghost fisted his wet hands in the pristine white of Akande’s collar, biting at his lower lip. “This feels like a family legacy,” he joked weakly, grinding against the bigger man’s solid thigh. He could feel the delicious hum of the Doomfist augments like an extra sensation.

“If you come on my suit, I’m going to be very cross,” Akande purred, yanking Ghost’s head back to suck on the trembling flesh of his throat. “Nanocytes are impossible to get out without some very specialized cleaning.”

“I dare you to stop me, _Doomfist_.” Ghost challenged and Akande tossed his umbrella aside. It landed with a thump on the wet asphalt, but Ghost was busy, hands pressed against the metal dumpster as he let Akande roughly turn him around.

One hand was still roughly fisted in his hair, and there was the soft rasp of a zipper as he used the other one to open his trousers. “Of all the many adaptations you’ve made to the Reaper system, I have to say, I love the fact that you’re so… open to access.” 

“You’re a smug douchebag,” Ghost wheezed, feeling the head of Akande’s shaft push into him.

“It’s like fucking ferrofluid, you know that?” Akande slammed him hard against the dumpster, gripping his hair tightly. “You are a glorious, monstrous, sexy mass of non-newtonian material."

“I hate you,” Ghost growled, meeting his thrusts, nails dragging gouges in the metal.

“I adore you, little monster,” Akande bit down on his neck and Ghost came hard against the dumpster with a stifled screech.

Panting, Ghost turned around to watch the other man tuck himself back in. “Ok? What’s happening here?”

“You’re distressed, and I merely provided you rescue,” he said, dusting a bit of grime from his suit. “We can continue this conversation when you are more yourself, Mister Morrison-Reyes.”

Ghost let his uniform slide around his limbs, mask closing over his face. “I’ll call you.”


End file.
